


Divine Weapon

by Cunninglinguist



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Assassination Attempt(s), Assassins & Hitmen, Blood, Bodily Fluids, Canon-Typical Violence, Consent Issues, Dark, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Face Slapping, Graphic Description, Gunplay, Guns, Injury, Knifeplay, Knives, Name-Calling, One Shot, POV First Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Self-Insert, Smut, Spit Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Weapons, Weapons Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 13:43:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19230286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cunninglinguist/pseuds/Cunninglinguist
Summary: 10:54 PM.I stare at the television, utterly indifferent to the content. The volume’s too low anyway, it's nearly eclipsed by the sound of the shower running.Ignoring the dull ache in my low back, I sit up and shrug on John’s undershirt. There’s dried blood on it, but it’s warm, and it smells like him. I bite my lip. My lover was insatiable tonight—not that this is new, but the urgency of our sex was tinged with desperation, tainted with the stench of fear. Not a scent I often smell on John Wick, but given the circumstances, I understood why.In one hour and six minutes, a multimillion dollar contract for John’s life would be disseminated amongst our peers. He would be denied the services and privileges afforded to those of us in the industry. He would have nowhere to run.In one hour and six minutes, I would kill John Wick.





	Divine Weapon

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the fic comes from this [super hot song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CZ7c3mGC3ok). For a good time, listen to it whilst reading. 
> 
> Caveat Lector: Please read all the warnings, then read them again, then read them once more to make sure this is for you. Also: mild Parabellum spoilers.

10:54 PM.

I stare at the television, utterly indifferent to the content. The volume’s too low anyway, it's nearly eclipsed by the sound of the shower running. 

Ignoring the dull ache in my low back, I sit up and shrug on John’s undershirt. There’s dried blood on it, but it’s warm, and it smells like him. I bite my lip. My lover was insatiable tonight—not that this is new, but the urgency of our sex was tinged with desperation, tainted with the stench of fear. Not a scent I often smell on John Wick, but given the circumstances, I understood why.

In one hour and six minutes, a multimillion dollar contract for John’s life would be disseminated amongst our peers. He would be denied the services and privileges afforded to those of us in the industry. He would have nowhere to run.

In one hour and six minutes, I would kill John Wick. 

It won’t be personal--nothing in this line of work is. I will be loath to do it, but you are the company you keep, and the High Table _always_ knows who is helping who. 

He’ll put up a fight, but we’ve fought together. We were raised together, trained together. Only one of us will leave here alive. 

With a sigh, I pull on my underwear--dreadfully impractical black lacy thing, but when I catch a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror, I remember why I love them. It also helps that the thigh straps double as gun and knife harnesses, should things go awry...which they almost always do.

I’m stretching my hips in a straddle split when my phone dings. Odd--it can’t be midnight yet. I flip it open and read the text. 

_UPDATE: John Wick is excommunicado effective IMMEDIATELY. Contract OPEN--$14M._

Fuck. Heart pounding, I reach under the bed and yank out my briefcase. At some point, the shower’s stopped running, I can’t tell when. Keeping one eye on the bathroom door, I thumb in the combination and pull out my butterfly knife and pistol. I sheathe the blade in my thigh holster and pull out a full clip. Just as I’m loading it in with a powerful thrust of the heel of my hand, the bathroom door opens to reveal my handsome, tattooed lover in nothing but a towel. His hair is messy and wet, and water beads down his freshly scrubbed, scarred chest. 

John’s eyes meet mine, and in an instant, he’s clocked the situation. I fire off a shot, but he somersaults away, losing his towel and shielding his body from my aim on the opposite side of the bed.

“I still have time!” His voice is muffled; I see his hand pointing to the ornate clock above my bed. 

“There’s been a change in plans.” I scramble to the edge of the bed and swipe my knife, nicking his arm. “Sorry, baby.”

He swears loudly, and before I can weaken him with a proper stab to the forearm, he leaps up, tackling me onto the bed. The will to survive permeates his gaze in a way that only occurs during tasks as he grasps for my wrists. I knee him in the thigh, surprising him enough to backhand him across the face and roll off the bed. Ever the moving target, he’s after me, and I shoot, knowing full well I’ll miss. He lunges and grabs my ankle. 

“I thought you’d at least let me put on my damn clothes before trying to kill me,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Why would I do that?” I kick him in the face and roll over my shoulder, getting easily to my feet. “I love seeing you naked.”

He barks out a wheezy laugh as a faint trickle of blood runs from his nose. The amount of times I’ve stitched him up and put him back together after fights is beyond count, and it’s a bit staggering to realize that I am now the cause of his pain, the enemy making him bleed and _meaning_ it. 

Naturally, he’s seen my suitcase--he pulls out my knife’s twin, I’d been too preoccupied to grab it earlier. Rookie mistake, I’ll be paying dearly for it later. He flings it at me, but I dodge it just in time. The sound of it whooshing through the air gives me goosebumps. 

I shoot at him once more, and it grazes his leg. He grunts in pain, but charges me. I have less than a split second to decide if I want to go the bathroom route, or continue fighting in the small space of the bedroom. I’ll be a sitting duck in the bathroom. 

With a cry of effort, I fling myself to the side, putting a full mahogany armoire between us. I hear him wrenching the knife out of the wall, and when a few seconds pass, I know he’s digging through his suit jacket for his--

_Click._

There it is, my lover’s weapon of choice. John’s gun has always been an extension of his arm in a way that I could only attempt to emulate. My breath catches in my throat at the realization that the stakes of this fight are at their peak. 

“I don’t want to kill you,” he says. Though my pulse pounds in my ears, I force myself to listen to my surroundings. He’s quiet, I can barely make out the feather-light touches of his feet on the carpet. “Please. Don’t make me kill you.”

 _If only you knew how badly I don’t want to kill you, either._ With an inhale that fortifies me down to the soul I’ve never had, I pivot, aim, and shoot. John dodges it, but I graze his shoulder. He grabs my wrist, hard, and slams my hand against the heavy wooden door of the armoire. I grimace in pain and go to pull my knife, but he slaps me across the face, stunning me momentarily as he drives my hand back into the wood with all of his strength. I claw at him, but with one final slam, my fingers open in pain and I drop the gun. He backhands me so hard that I see stars and taste blood, but through the haze of pain, I manage to finally grasp my knife.

My arm barely reaches the halfway point of its trajectory when John’s strong hand intercepts it. 

“Don’t make me do this,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

I kick him, hard, in the shin. He grunts and I overpower him, stabbing him in the shoulder. With a cry of pain, he shoves me down on the bed so roughly that the breath is knocked from my lungs. Vision swimming, I try to scramble to a seated position. John pulls the knife from his shoulder and is on me in an instant, kneeing apart my thighs and holding my wrist down as he brings the bloody blade down, aiming between my eyes. Panicking, I bring my free hand up to stop him, nails digging into his wrist, our labored breaths mingling as we struggle for control.

He pushes his weight harder into me, and I catch his eyes—he’s hard against my thigh. 

The absurdity and urgency of the situation overwhelm me and I can’t help but laugh. “Jesus, John,” I gasp, arching into him as I grit my teeth and press his weaponized hand away from me. “You’re so fucked up.”

“What can I say,” is his response, breathy and slow with effort. “I’d rather fuck you than kill you.”

I bite my lip and arch into him, feeing a gush of wetness between my thighs. “Why don’t you fuck me then?”

With a burst of strength he knocks my arm away and, in one preternaturally swift movement, gathers both of my wrists above my head in one hand and presses the blade against my jugular. I swallow, acutely aware of the blood rushing in my veins, as though it’s trying to penetrate the soft dam of my throat to splatter and spray at the behest of inexorable steel. His eyes blaze, triumphant, as he pants above me. The scent of him--his blood, hot and metallic, his sweat, his rage, his lust--is nearly overwhelming.

I part my lips, watching him do the same instinctively. My heart hammers like a bird’s wings against a cage as he leans forward. He’s going to kiss me, and god, do I want him to. 

But this bell cannot be unrung, and if I let my guard down, he’ll win, one way or another. Even if he lets me live, the High Table will come for my pound of flesh, and what remains of a life that is barely my own will be spent in even deeper, more grueling servitude. 

At the first blissful touch of his mouth against mine, I slip my hands free and roll us over, hissing as the blade slides against my neck, releasing a white hot rivulet of blood. In an instant, I pry the knife from his grasp and hold it to his neck as I straddle him. He’s seething, eyes on fire, and it is a frightful thing to be the one at the center of that wild rage. 

Triumph floods my body, and I grin at him, tasting my own blood. I feel him, hot and hard between my thighs, and grind down against him. “Any last words--”

Powerful hands gripping my hips cut me off and he thrusts up against me, drawing an unbidden moan of pleasure from my throat. Using my own weakness against me, he slaps the knife from my hand and bucks me off of him. Before I can make sense of my situation, he’s pressed me down on my stomach, hips lifted high. When I try to prop myself up on my elbows, he splays his hand against the base of my skull and pushes my head into the bedspread. 

“I disarmed you,” he growls, breath hot and heavy against my ear. My mouth falls open as he roughly slaps and squeezes my ass. “Nothing is within arm’s reach. You can’t win this.”

“I--” I try, gagging around a mouthful of sheets. 

“Stay down,” he whispers harshly, pressing on the back of my head until I emit a gasp of pain. “Or I’ll break your pretty neck.”

Hot, loathsome arousal pools in my gut as I go rigid. Synapses fire rapidly as the one eye I have available rolls in its socket, assessing. I know he’s right. It’s not like I can’t fight him, we are solidly matched in melee combat, but none of that seems to matter as he tears my panties off and swipes thick fingers through my dripping cunt. 

For my own pride, I attempt to throw him off once more, but his forearm presses down against my neck at the same time as he pushes two fingers inside of me. I gasp, thighs shaking as he finger-fucks me hard, slow, and deep. 

“St-stop,” I try, but my voice is breathy with traitorous desire, and he chuckles darkly above me. He shoves his fingers deep and twists, and as I cry out he yanks my hair. I grit my teeth and my neck jerks back painfully, and for a moment, I truly do fear that he’ll make good on his threat. 

Instead, he releases my hair and shoves me down. My veins turn to ice at the sensation of something cold and hard at the base of my skull. 

“Feel that?” He pulls his fingers from my body and presses the barrel of the gun into my hair. 

“Yeah,” I whisper. 

He nudges my thighs apart with his knees and rubs the head of his prick against my wet opening. “How about that?”

“Y-yeah.”

He spits, and a hot globule of saliva runs down between my ass cheeks. Slick fingers rub against my asshole as he teases the head of his prick against my cunt, and I want my body to tense up, but my knees widen shamelessly as I let out a groan.

“Stay still, slut,” he murmurs, rubbing the gun almost lovingly against the overheated skin of my shoulders as he presses a slick finger unceremoniously into my ass. It burns some, but we’ve done this many times, under different circumstances, and the burn quickly becomes a familiar, pleasurable discomfort. 

Fluid drips hot and sticky down my thigh as he coaxes a second finger inside, and I push back desperately against him, craving him everywhere. But John knows my body inside and out, and he’s merciless in the exploitation of his intimate knowledge--he withdraws his fingers to toy at my rim, lightly scissoring them apart, driving me towards madness.

I rock my hips back again, and he withdraws his fingers so fast I gasp. He slaps my ass, hard. “I said stay still.”

A whine that should be embarrassing escapes my lips, but I comply--now that this has been set in motion, the instinct to kill has taken a backseat to something far more primal. If I were of sound mind, I’d have the sense to hate myself for surrendering to the pleasures of John’s flesh.

But I want him, god, no matter how much it hurts, no matter what I will suffer, and I am suspended in a fog of lust and pain as he fingers my fight-exhausted body open, rubbing me deep inside. When he flips me onto my back, my eyes are glazed and my brain is all but static. 

His eyes still burn like a man possessed as they bore into mine. “I’m gonna fuck you in the ass now,” he growls, pressing the gun right between my eyes as he reaches across me for the lubricant on the nightstand. My response is little more than a breathy groan, adrenaline spiking my heart rate like an aphrodisiac. 

I watch intently as he pulls the gun back, settling himself between my thighs and drizzling viscous liquid all over my cunt and down my ass crack. John’s dark eyes never leave my face as he places the gun cautiously down, freeing up his hands. This is my chance, likely the last one I get. My rational brain overtakes my lust-driven stupidity, and I sit up and lunge for the gun.

John’s a step ahead, like he’s always been. He slaps me in the face twice and forces me down, caging my body with his, kneeing my thighs apart, one hand gripping my jaw roughly while the other digs into my thigh. 

“I like it when you fight,” he snarls, mania flaring in his gaze as he presses his slick cock into my asshole. 

I claw at his forearm, eyes rolling back in my head as he stretches me. The pain is sharp and exquisite, especially compounded with my numerous other injuries and aches. He breathes raggedly as he stares into my eyes, thrusting slow and deep. His hair falls loose over his forehead as a bead of sweat slides down his nose and drips onto my face. 

I moan his name, and he groans, eyes widening. He releases my jaw and sits up on his knees, bending forward just enough to grip both of my forearms and press them into the mattress. My hips tilt up and his breathing hitches at the change in position.

“Yeah,” I moan, tipping my head back as my cunt gushes copiously. “You fuck me so good, John.”

“Yeah,” he grits out, nails biting into my flesh as he picks up the pace of his hips. He glances down to where our bodies are joined, lip curling upwards as he watches his length slide in and out of me. 

I moan as he fucks me until the pressure in my gut has reached an untenable point. I’m hot all over, loving the sensation of his weight bearing down on me, the aching fullness of his cock in my ass, but yearning to touch my clit, desperate for that extra sensation to orgasm. I struggle against him, but he yanks my arms overhead and pushes both wrists into one of his huge hands. He fondles my breasts and stomach, caressing up my leg, and I let out a little mewl as his fingers dance closer to where I want them the most. 

He stops just short, stroking at the juncture between my thigh and cunt. He stares me in the eyes. “Say my name.”

“Mmm, John,” I murmur, rolling my hips against him, blood singing. 

“My other name.”

I bite my lip. “Jardani.”

The hand around my wrists tightens. “My _other_ name.”

When I meet his gaze, look in his eyes strikes fear in my heart, a genuine terror that I have not felt in living memory. When I whisper out, _”baba yaga”_ , he sets his jaw, the vein in his neck popping, and he lets out a feral groan and plunges two fingers deep into my cunt.

My back bows off the bed, fingers twisting as he simultaneously fucks my ass and fingers me, reaching so deep and filling me until I can’t remember what it’s like to be empty. The thin veil between aching pain and the haze of ecstasy lifts beautifully as I buck my hips to meet his thrusts, crying out _John, John, John_. He's relentless above me, glistening with sweat and blood, fucking me until white spots dance in my vision and I come, hard, heat tearing through me as both holes clench around him.

He fucks me through it, grunting like a beast, sweat sliding between our bodies until he finally stills and releases deep inside me. 

I lie there, panting, tears on my face, throat hoarse, entire body aching. He pulls out, a flood of thick come spilling out of me in his wake. I cry out weakly at the loss of him. 

Post-coital bliss is not in the cards, however--he quickly points his gun at me, prick still shiny, warning in his eyes. 

I raise my hands feebly, snapped back into the reality of my situation. “John, please--”

“Shut up,” he barks. He glances at his suit hanging in the corner, then up at the clock, then back at me. Something inscrutable passes across his face, and he slowly lowers the gun and extends his free hand. 

I stare between his face and his hand. “Is this some kind of trick?” 

“No trick. Come with me.”

A wry smile spreads across my face, heart and brain coming back online. It’s a long shot, us against the world, but I’m already on the hook for failing to kill an _excommunicado._ Might as well commit. “You’re fucking crazy.”

“Yeah. So they say.” 

With a deep exhale, I let him help me to my feet. I cup his face with trembling hands and pull him in for a searing kiss, relishing in the burn of his beard against me. “Okay. We can leave tonight. I have some favors left to cash in.”

He smirks. “You’re not the only one.”

I roll my eyes and head into the bathroom to clean up. Later, as I run an alcohol-soaked cotton ball over the stab wound in his shoulder, I can’t help but ask, “Good fight, John?”

Affection dances in his deep brown eyes as he nods. “Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man oh man oh man, John Wick is so hot. I finally watched Parabellum last night and I could not continue to live without writing this. 
> 
> If you appreciated this content, please tip your friendly neighborhood smut dealer in comments and kudos, I eat that shit up! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> I'm also on [Tumblr dot com](http://hannibalssweaters.tumblr.com/), if you're into that.


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